


Another Lost Soul

by the_shy_shrimp



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hypothermia, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rescue, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_shy_shrimp/pseuds/the_shy_shrimp
Summary: Harmael never actually wanted this, he never wanted any of it. He was content to stay in Sahrnia, begging food and coin from any travelers or merchants who came through while his brother worked in the quarries to provide just a little more for them. It wasn't a comfortable life, by any means, but it was better than nothing.The lure of a better life with the Inquisition, however, sends the brothers on the perilous journey to Skyhold, setting off a series of events that will change Harmael's life. Will he even make it to the better life his brother wants for them, or will the dangers along the way turn him into yet another soul lost on the road to hope?Tags will change as the story continues to be written.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Journey to Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. Mind the Tags. Much like Idaho in the wintertime, this story will probably get very dark very quickly, and the tags will change to reflect that as the story evolves.  
> 2\. This is a work in progress. Please, as always, let me know if you like it, as this helps me keep track of which of the 700+ ideas I have gets prioritized.  
> 3\. I promise later chapters will be longer.
> 
> Enjoy!

“We’re almost there, just a bit further.”

Harmael grimaces, his shivering form bracing against the side of the cart as the wheels hit yet another loose cobble. He loves his brother dearly, but the shining optimism that Galras wears like a mantle is beginning to sound forced. Even if he cannot see his brother’s face, he can tell the omnipresent smile is even beginning to falter. He can hear it in his tone of voice, if nothing else.

“You’ve been saying that since we left the Emprise, Gal.” He wheezes as the cart is jarred again. “You’d think we might actually be there by now with how frequently you repeat yourself.”

“But we are, though!” The younger of the two pipes up, sounding hurt. “We’re getting closer every day, and we’re much closer now than we were when we left Sahrnia. Before you know it, we’ll be at Skyhold! With the Inquisition!”

“Yeah… the Inquisition…”

“You don’t sound like you’re looking forward to it.” Galras peers over his shoulder at his brother, still curled up in the corner of the hand cart, as down as ever.

“I am, I am. Trust me, I’m just… nervous, I suppose.”

“Templars?”

“Templars.”

“But life will be better for us there, remember? I heard the Inquisitor herself is Dalish! They’ve _got_ to respect elves there, right? She wouldn’t let them be treated like slaves in her own organization, right? Right? And I can learn a real trade, or be a soldier… and you might even—”

“—get my sight back, I know. You’ve said it a million times, Galras. It’s also a big maybe. Maybe they’ll have a healer who can fix me. Maybe. Or maybe I just end up being the village cripple in a fortress full of templars who would just as soon.. well. You know.”

“I know it’s a risk, but we have to try. And as long as you don’t go around… you know… doing things… then the templars should leave you alone, right? In theory.”

“In theory.” The crippled elf sighs heavily, scratching lightly under the bandages that cover his mangled eyes. “But you know I can’t always control it.”

“I know… but that’s why we just have to be careful.”

Harmael doesn’t grace his brother with an answer. They’ve had this conversation, or versions of it, every day of their travels, and nothing he says will change Galras’s mind. Of course, the risk of journeying to Skyhold to join the Inquisition is much lower for him: he doesn’t need to worry about being outed as a hedge mage, or simply left to starve for being a cripple. There were so many ways this little adventure could go horribly, terribly wrong, especially for Harmael. But the risk was worth it, at least in Galras’s head, if it meant they might, possibly, on the off chance, end up with a better life than they had in Sahrnia.

To be fair, Sahrnia wasn’t awful. Galras had his work in the quarries, and during the day, Harmael would sit out in the center of town and beg from any travelers who passed through. It wasn’t a glamorous life, by any means, but at least they had a leaky-ish roof over their heads and enough warm clothing that they didn’t freeze to death in the winter. Things had been better before the fall of the Circles, of course, back when they didn’t have to worry about templars scouring the countryside and rounding up anyone who even smelled vaguely of ozone, back when their parents had still been alive. But there was nothing to be done about that now.

“Did you fall asleep on me again?”

“Would you blame me if I did?” Harmael snorts, letting a brief smirk flit across his face. “You aren’t exactly an engaging conversationalist.”

“Oh har, har, very funny, Messere Well-Learned Mage. I apologize for my incessant and droll chatter.”

“Not so loud, you fool!” What if somebody heard you, huh?”

“Oh please, like anyone is going to hear us out here in the middle of the mountains. How long has it been since we’ve even seen another traveler? Hours. That’s how long.”

The older elf only grumbles in response.

“Besides, if anyone is in need of a nap, I feel as though I’m the one who deserves it.”

“What happened to, ‘I’m a big strong miner, I can pull a cart carrying a few knickknacks and a sack of broken bones no problem!’ Wasn’t that what you said yesterday?”

“You know what, when you put it that way, you make me sound like a real jerk.”

“What a concept.”

“Hey now—”

_sssssssSSSSNICK_

“What was that?” Harmael braces as the cart tips again, although this time its because they’ve suddenly stopped, and has nothing to do with the poorly maintained cobbles. “Galras, what’s going on?”


	2. Ambush and Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin, an ambush and a rescue. 
> 
> Also we start to meet some familiar characters in this chapter.

There is no answer from the younger elf. Only a brief moment of silence, filled shortly by the sounds of boots crunching through crisp snow and men shouting in the distance. Even with well-trained ears, their words are difficult to make out, but he swears he heard the word “loot” in there somewhere. As the crunching sounds draw closer, Harmael wedges himself further into the corner of the hand cart, making himself as small as possible.

“This one doesn’t look like much.” He hears a gruff voice from somewhere vaguely in front of the cart. “Hold on, it looks like we’ve got another one in here…”

He hears the sound of steel being drawn, swords and daggers, and the thought causes the elf to shiver even more. _This is it_ , he thinks to himself. _This is how I die. In the middle of nowhere, in the freezing cold, run through by bandits. I knew this was a horrible idea, I just KNEW it! We shouldn’t have ever entered the Frostbacks, we should have stayed in Sahrnia, should have—_

A snapping sound in front of his nose causes Harmael to draw back with a surprised gasp, smacking his head against the side of the cart with an audible _crack_.

“He’s probably blind.” The gruff voice calls out to what the elf can only assume are numerous others. “Not even worth the trouble.”

“Hey!” The cripple shouts as he’s suddenly lifted from the cart and unceremoniously tossed into a snow bank.

“Should we just gut ‘im and leave ‘im, boss?”

“Nah, don’t even bother. He won’t survive the night out here anyway. Look at his legs, there’s no way he can even walk on his own, the wolves can take care of him for us. No need to waste the energy, let’s just take whatever they had and get out of here.”

“What about the other one?”

“Just toss his body over the edge of the cliff. That arrow sticking out of his face might actually look suspicious if someone happens on ‘im.”

It doesn’t take long for them to rifle through the meager contents of the cart; all they had were a few blankets and some food. But they take all of it, down to the last crumb, leaving Harmael with nothing beyond the clothes on his back and the ache in his chest. They had even taken Galras from him, and needlessly so. But… maybe it was better this way. At least his death had been quick, and not the agonizing combination of freezing and starvation that would be his fate. Already the chilly numbness was creeping into his fingertips, and the tears running down his cheeks beginning to freeze solid.

“What are you doing, idiot?!”

“Uh, burning the cart, boss?”

“No, you slackwit! We’re too close to Skyhold, they’ll see the smoke. Do you _want_ to let them know what we’re up to?”

“… no?”

“That’s right. ‘No’ would be the correct answer. Now put out that torch before somebody sees. We need to get out of here before it starts getting dark.”

“But what do we do with the cart?”

“Just leave it! By the time anyone finds it, we’ll be long gone.”

And just like that, their footsteps crunch off into the distance, and Harmael is once again surrounded by silence. He can’t be sure they’ve left completely, but he hears nothing, and they had seemed to be in a rush to go… tentatively, he attempts to prop himself up and out of the damp snow as best he can. There isn’t a sound to be heard, beyond the whistling of the occasional gust through the pass. He knows enough about surviving the cold to know his chances of making it through the night alone out here are slim. With Galras, they had been able to use each other’s body heat and the mountain of blankets they’d brought to stay warm, even after their campfires burned low. But now? He didn’t have a prayer.

“Okay, let’s see here…” He mutters to himself, feeling the ground around him for the solidness of the stone paved road. If he can find the road, at least he might be able to dry off a little while the sun is still out. _No, no, no… there!_ Slowly but surely, he hauls himself out of the snow bank and back onto the road. The act leaves him out of breath, but he presses onward, trying to determine just where their discarded cart was. Any layer between him and the frigid ground would help come nightfall, even if it was just a wooden panel…

The elf stops short, his hand coming in contact with something soft and decidedly not made of wood. He swallows thickly, the tears leaping again to his eyes as he realizes exactly what he’s found. Wool spun thick and woven into a tunic, well-worn and loved through the years. Rough hands, calloused from years of hard labor, despite their comparatively young age. The soft skin of a young man’s face, wind-burned and damp, but still warm. Harmael’s hands come away sticky. He continues, feeling every feature of that face so as never to forget it, but stops short when his fingertips are met with the haft of an arrow protruding from Galras’s temple.

So they didn’t throw his body over the cliff after all.

He sobs uncontrollably, laying across his brother’s corpse. The grim reality of their—no, _his_ situation has hit him full force, and the ache that had settled in his chest grows to fill his entire being. He finds himself no longer caring about the impending freeze that will likely take his life, his will to survive drowned out now by grief. Galras is gone… gone forever. His only remaining family has just been taken from him, here on this frozen road so far from home. They’ll—no, _he’ll_ never make it to Skyhold now. He’ll never make it home. He knew this was a horrible idea, he just _knew it_! Even from the very beginning… but it doesn’t matter now. It’s over. It’s all over.

His body shakes, between the sobs and shivering through the dropping temperatures, it leaves him exhausted. The weight of it, and the weight of his grief… it feels like they’re crushing him, making him sink into his brother’s body, melding them until they are one corpse, indistinguishable from each other. Frozen. Starved. Dead. Forgotten.

* * *

“This one’s still alive!”

Harmael groans, roused from his frozen stupor by shouting. He feels gloved hands on his neck, and wishes they would just crush it, already. But... they’re warm, oh so blessedly warm. He doesn’t have the strength to even lift his head, otherwise he would have positively clung to those hands.

“Looks like they were ambushed…” It’s a feminine voice that speaks, low to the ground, probably crouching. “Might’ve been those bandits last night’s patrol caught up the road from here.”

“He looks like he’s hurt pretty bad, maybe even from before they were attacked… it’s amazing the wolves haven’t gotten to them yet. Does anyone have a spare blanket? A coat, maybe? I don’t think this poor fellow has much time left.”

“Here, take my cloak. Keep him warm and get him back to Skyhold as fast as you can. Maybe he can still be saved. We’ll take care of that other body.”

“Right away, Scout Harding.”

Suddenly the frigid elf is bundled in heat, and he groans at the relief it brings. The warm hands pull him away from the ground, away from his brother’s corpse, and into the air. The feeling of sudden weightlessness causes him to jerk, nearly sending him tumbling back to the ground, but the one holding him manages to keep their grip.

“Easy, easy… come on, pal, stay with me. We’re almost there, just a bit further.”

_Funny, that’s what Galras kept saying,_ Harmael thinks groggily to himself. _Yet we never did get there. Always just a bit further, always a little bit more…_ He groans again, sharp pain lancing through his hands as feeling returns to them. The longer he’s awake, the more sensation seeps back into his body, and it _hurts so bad_. The frigid stillness between living and death had been far preferable to this agony. _Why couldn’t they just let me die? Let me be with my brother? There isn’t any point to it now, I am nothing without him!_

“Don’t sleep just yet, friend. We’re nearly there.”

He doesn’t listen.

He is already drowning in silence, and can’t be bothered to care.


	3. Fighting with Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet some more familiar faces, and some of them get in a fight.

“Frozen silence, wanting to leave but can’t. Can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe. I want to die, why won’t they let me go?”

The eerily desperate voice pulls him back toward reality, away from the crushing void that seemed to suck out his soul. He’s warmer now, bundled in thick woolen blankets with a soft cushion folded under his head. The sounds of people surround him, not just the haunting voice that filtered in through the haze of unconsciousness, but footsteps, shuffling movements, the sound of fabric rustling and people breathing.

“What are you doing here, Cole?”

“I’m trying to help him.”

Harmael shudders as the eerie voice speaks again. There is something wrong, something unnatural about it…

“I know. I’m different. But you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m here to help.”

“Remember what we talked about with reading people’s thoughts, kid?”

“I know, I’m sorry! But he can’t speak. Too weak, too scared, too cold. My heart is so cold, solid ice, never thaws. I lost him, I was supposed to take care of him, but I couldn’t, and now he’s lost.”

“Maybe we should get some fresh air, yeah? Your friend looks like he could use some rest…”

“He wants to die, Varric.”

“Okay, now we’re really going to leave…”

There is silence, after they go. There are others around, but nobody speaks to him, at least for a while, and he is grateful for it. It gives him time to rest, time to think. He drifts between waking and sleeping, still exhausted and chilled and too weak to move, for hours. All he can manage is the occasional shiver, and it isn’t until he is almost completely asleep that he is interrupted again.

“Are you awake, friend?” The voice is feminine, caring and tired, like she has seen far too much for one day, and knows she will see far more before the end of it. She is probably a healer of some sort.

“Yes…” His voice is quiet and raspy, barely audible at all. But it was apparently enough.

“That’s good to hear!” Comes her soft exclamation. “I’m Isabelle, and I’m here to help take care of you. I have to say, you had us quite worried when Jim brought you in. At least now your skin has some color back in it, and it looks like you’re starting to perk up a bit.”

He doesn’t bother responding beyond a vague grunt.

“Scout Harding will probably want to talk to you once you’ve recovered a bit more.” She continues rambling as she begins to unwrap him from the cocoon of blankets. “I’ve been trying to keep the visitors at bay until we know for sure you’ll recover…”

He couldn’t care less about recovery. What was there left for him to live for, now that his brother was gone? The only future he could really hope for was one where he wasn’t immediately cast out for his disabilities. Unless…

“Can you fix my eyes?”

“… excuse me?” The woman pauses in her work bandaging his hands to give him her full attention.

“My eyes… I’ve been blind for most of my life.” His words are almost shy, as if he is a child asking for a cookie before he’s finished his dinner.

“Well… I can speak to the surgeon about it, once you’re back on your feet, of course.”

Any and all optimism Harmael may have possessed was gone in an instant. How many times had he heard that in his life? We can focus on your sight once you’re stronger. Maybe once you can walk again, we’ll talk about getting your eyes back. Over time, it had been one denial after another, masked as procrastination. Really, it was just a fancy way of saying it wasn’t going to happen.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I haven’t walked on my own in years.” He snorts, bitterness creeping into his raspy voice as she continued to change out the bandages on his hands. “Getting ‘back on my feet’, as you put it, may take more effort than you’re ready to put forth.”

“Oh… well I’ll just add that to the list of things to bring to the surgeon’s attention, then. Don’t worry, love. We’ll get you sorted out. We have plenty of mages who can help too.” She finishes her work with a pat to his hand, and promptly bundles him back up in the blankets. “Are you in pain at all?”

He shrugs. The numbness and stabbing agony he had grown so used to had long dissipated, to be replaced by a bone-deep ache that seemed to be present in every corner of his body. It was annoying, and just enough to keep him awake, but not enough to justify doing anything about it, at least in his opinion. “I ache. But its fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for heroics. I’ll be back with some herbs for you.”

And just like that, she shuffles off. Harmael sighs irately, once he is mostly sure Isabelle is out of earshot. So much for that. He leans back into the cushion beneath his head, trying to at least get comfortable while he waits. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the woman to return.

“I’m back! And I’ve brought gifts!” She returns cheerfully, and Harmael can her the clatter of items carried on a try as she does. “Herbs for pain, and some warm stew straight from the kitchens. That should help you warm up. These herbs should be taken with food anyhow, so have as much as you can, alright?”

He halfway expects her to drop the tray and leave, but today it would seem he is not so lucky. Instead, she perches on the edge of his cot and nudges his lips with a spoon full of the hot stew.

“Come on, now, open up. It’s quite tasty.”

Reluctantly, he complies and allows himself to be fed. Of course, he would have preferred to do so himself, and is certain he could have, given a moment to get upright and figure out where things were, but with the crushing exhaustion still clinging to his frame, he allows the coddling. For now, at least. Even when his appetite starts to waver, there is the spoon, shoving more stew in his mouth. Even just the one bowl is more than he’s had to eat in one meal for months, probably, and it takes repeatedly turning away from the offending utensil for Isabelle to catch the message.

“Done already? Fair enough, I suppose you ate more than I expected you to. Here…” He hears the clatter of the nearly-empty bowl being set aside, and the rustle of leaves being shuffled around. “Open up. Chew and swallow as best you can…”

He isn’t left with much of a choice, with the bundle of herbs being shoved into his mouth as soon as it was even loosely ajar. They taste vile, and even long after the slippery leaves have gone down his throat he is left smacking his lips, trying to rid his mouth of the bitter flavor. Even after a few minutes, though, the ever-present ache is reduced to background noise, enough so that he begins to feel the exhaustion dragging him down again. Against his better judgement, he settles in for a nap, completely oblivious to the healers coming and going around him.

* * *

“Lies, always lies. False hopes given when the truth is too hard to say out loud. Kind words to bandage a broken bone, but it’s not enough.”

Harmael stirs again, roused by the same voice as before.

“Always a burden, too weak, too sick.”

He recognizes his own thoughts, but it isn’t his own voice that speaks them.

“Never see again. Never walk again. Always rely on others.”

He groans, trying to roll onto his side and face the voice.

“Galras didn’t care, he loved me. Brothers take care of each other, no matter what.”

He can’t move, his whole body paralyzed.

“But Galras is gone now.”

Unable to even turn his head, he whimpers at the realization of his helplessness.

“It would be better if I were dead.”

“COLE!”

The sounds of a scuffle arise beside him, and the elf tenses, the dregs of sleep still clinging to him and holding him in their iron grip. Is this a dream? Is he imagining all of it as some sort of horrible trick of his mind? He wants to get up and flee, afraid that the violence may come his way, intentionally or not.

“Let go of me! He needs my help!”

“No! Not like that! I saw your dagger, kid.”

“He wants to die, Varric!”

“Be that as it may, this is _not_ the way to go about helping him!”

“What’s going on here?”

“Oof!”

The sound of something heavy hitting the ground causes Harmael to jerk, the most movement he’s been able to produce thus far, and with a great amount of effort, manages to get his body turned over onto its side.

“Master Tethras? What is the meaning of all this ruckus? Have you been drinking overmuch again?”

“… yep, that was it. Thought I saw something over there in the corner and started yelling at it, turns out it was just a trunk, imagine that. Sorry to be a disturbance, Isabelle, I’ll get out of your hair, now.”

“Please do. I expect you to go straight to bed, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wha’s g’nnon…”

At the noise, both turn to the infirmed elf in the cot, who until then had been utterly silent and both had assumed was asleep.

“Nothing you need to worry about, love. Master Tethras was just a little excited, that’s all. He’s going to bed now, and you should go back to sleep too.”

Harmael has a sneaking suspicion she’s lying, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue. So he just sighs, rolls back over, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
